


Borders, 1945

by still_intrepid



Series: No Greater Ally [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1939, 1945, Diplomacy, Gen, Nightmares, Trauma, Uneasy Allies, Violence, World War II, interpretable EngPol in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_intrepid/pseuds/still_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poland is left alone with Russia for the first time in six years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borders, 1945

**Author's Note:**

> Content advisory: The first part of this dealt a bit with the Battle of Britain, Warsaw Rising and Yalta … this, though the references are quite oblique, is darker, more of the Rising, mention of Katyn, 1939 invasions, and an allusion to concentration/death camps. Including a couple quite grim images.
> 
> Hetalia fic, not history, although there’s plenty of history in there. It’s just from a narrow time, place and character perspective. One of the key differences maybe with Hetalia characters is the sense that Poland and Russia have known each other _personally_ for a very long time. 
> 
> Takes place directly after No Greater Ally, which you don’t have to have read particularly: basically, England has just left (and this is tragic!EngPol!verse but doesn’t come into it very heavily) and Russia’s arriving to take Poland back home and help him recoup, which Poland is not happy about.

They begin with a slight altercation about language, standing facing each other across the room.  _In English_ , Feliks insists.  No _not_ Russian, why should I speak Russian, I’m not Russian; would you prefer to speak Polish?  No? 

 _Pick your battles_ , someone told him, and ( _he picks them all_ ) he’s not going to start by abandoning the fight on this point.

Russia shrugs, gracious.  “Of course, if you prefer.”  As if he hadn’t started the whole thing as some low power-play.  “Your English is very good now, by the way; you must have had much practise…”

“Thank you,” Poland says icily.

“…and before that, it was France you were always trailing after, wasn’t it?” Russia sighs.  “So pitiable, my little Poland.”

Poland rolls his eyes.  “Okay: number one, not “little”, and two, _definitely_ \- despite of your best efforts - not _yours_.  Like, have you been listening to a single thing?  Totally still my own nation, just won a war here to make sure of that?”  Words which turn to ash in his mouth.

“And I congratulate you.  Come, let us start again more pleasantly.”

He walks over and embraces Poland, and kisses him, as is his custom.

Poland sucks in his breath through his teeth and then goes stock still.  _Relax.  Breathe.  Endure._

It isn’t even that intimacy that’s the problem.  Well, it _is_ a problem.  But it’s also the way Russia’s hands slide from Poland’s back to his neck and his cold fingers press _there just there at the hairline, there where the barrel of the gun goes_.  Russia sighs contentedly as he finds the place and Poland, hating himself for it, shudders in his arms.

 _In his dreams they shoot him through the head and he doesn’t die, waking instead eight foot deep in dead bodies, cooling corpses that had been his bright-shining children. It’s hours to the surface_.

Poland digs his nails into his palms.  “…Like, you can let go now,” he grumbles.  “I know we’re best buddies and all, but maybe you remember from last time we were, you know, _close_ , I’m not so hot on the touchy-feely stuff.”

“You are very special to me, Feliks,” Russia says softly.  “You always have been,” – and because he’s been just _specializing_ in doctoring histories lately he probably believes it, too.  “You’re a good boy really, just willful.  Poland is a sweet child, that is what I tell everyone; he only needs guidance.”

“Oh, child yourself,” Poland says in disgust, “how short is your memory?” but Russia isn’t listening.

“Let’s not fight.  As you say, we won a great victory, yes?  We will work together.  I forgive you your former ingratitude.”

Poland just zones out.  Russia’s clearly too into his own liturgical-mad-song to even notice.  He’s talking about being _strong_ again, about how _this time they will protect each other_ , about how much they _need_ each other, and Poland does not want to hear it  — there’s paranoia and then there’s this, he thinks, oh God, how long am I going to have to put up with him whingeing on and on?

Then Russia reaches out and lingeringly adjusts the collar on Poland’s uniform, and now he is painfully present in the room again, his senses screaming at the contact, his heart jerking like a trapped bird.  That’s all it takes.  Russia has done his work well.

“Do try to pay attention, Poland,” he murmurs.

* * *

 

He needs to stay angry.  They’re old rivals, and he can call up his old gallows eloquence; if this is another futile fight then at least it’s a fight, at least he knows how it goes.

“We’re not a part of your little club, or whatever, me and Hungary.”

“No, no,” Russia says reasonably, “not at present.  But my door is always open to my friends…”  ( _Yeah_ , thinks Poland, _open until they step inside._ )  “I have our mutual friend Lithuania with me, of course.”  His voice is light, teasing, inconsequential.  “When was the last time you two..?  Although, honestly I don’t expect he’ll want to see you.  You really have made a mess of everything, haven’t you, Feliks?  How is it you are so bad at keeping friends? I would like to see you reconciled.  We could _all_ be together again…”

“You better not let Alfred hear you talking all expansionist like this,” Poland interrupts finally. “That might totally shatter the fragile and beautiful trust between you guys.”

“America does not trust me, not truly,” Russia says petulantly. “No one does.”

“He trusts you a whole lot more than I do.  Or Arthur.”

“Arthur?” Russia repeats, and Poland wishes he hadn’t used his _name_.  “No, he does not trust me. Do you know, I really think he imagines the very worst of everyone, so what he must think of me…”

“He doesn’t know the half of it,” Poland hisses.

“Does that make it easier?”

“What?”

Russia chuckles.  “You, acting as if you’ve been handed down a death sentence, you poor boy; does it make it _easier_ , believing that your dear Arthur does not _know_ what he’s leaving you to?”

 _Yes_.  Oh _God_ , that probably was what he was clinging to – he won’t think about it anymore.  “Is that a threat?” he asks instead.

“Of course not.”  Russia spreads his hands. “All friends here.”

“So what’s all this ‘what he’s leaving me to’ business then?” Poland demands, deciding why the fuck should he let anything else slide today.

Russia claims his victory.  “Only your overactive imagination, Poland, as usual.”

Poland wants to hit him.  No, screw that, he wants to smash his face in with a brick, how _dare_ he.

_Be reasonable, Poland.  Don’t exaggerate, Poland. (He’s just seeking attention, again.) Not even Germany would go so far.  The USSR is our trusted ally._

_There is no use prowling morbidly round three-year-old graves._

(It stings worst of all because that was England, too, or at least his blessed government.)

* * *

 

"How is the heart?" Russia asks suddenly, meaning Warsaw.

 _You should know, you were just_ there, Poland thinks but doesn’t say.  “We’re rebuilding.”

But Russia delights in the double-meaning and seizes Poland’s arm to forcibly take his pulse.  “Ah!” he laments.  “Don’t worry, we shall make you well again soon.”

…He always liked the soft places, vulnerable spots, pulse points.  Poland’s body holds many an older memory of those hands drifting over his skin to feel the heartbeat in the wrist or under the jawline, and it’s better not to try to get out of his grip because he is stronger. 

 _If you struggle, this will only hurt more_. (Poland always struggles.)

* * *

"It’s time to take you home,” Russia says, at-bloody- _last_ , standing.  “We have to organise your new government, after all.” 

Poland doesn’t move.  “….by that you mean,” he growls, “ _set in motion the process for the free democratic elections with my people’s parties in a few months’ time_ , yes?”

"Of course," Russia says, blinking owlishly at him. "That is what I mean."

"Because, _fuck,_ Russia—” Poland gets to his feet but looks away, “if you’re not even gonna make an effort to _pretend_ here—”

Russia hits him, a casual backhand across his face so hard that he staggers back into the table.

Poland’s instantly surging forward again and gets in one half-decent punch before Russia seizes both of his wrists, yanking them hard above his head.  He yells in pain as it feels like his arms are nearly ripped from their sockets.

"You don’t want to do that, Poland."

Russia towers over him, forces him back again so the edge of the table digs into the back of his legs.  His own ragged breathing and Russia’s roars in his ears.  He has to keep his footing.  But it’s already too close, too much, and his mind flicks like a switch back to _last time_ , to _the last time we were close_ , when Russia does not stop, throws him to the ground and holds him down as he thrashes and snaps like any wild and wounded thing – then, a few minutes of compressed violence – and dazed and bloodied now he’s hardly able to flinch as Russia caresses his favourite new bruises, whispers _,_ “ _I’ve missed my old pastime…_ ” 

…And, alright, since then they have been allies, they have fought side by side—they have not been alone the two of them like this _._   Never, never since; that has not happened, that has not been _allowed_ to happen. He has to get a handle on his panic, because he is panicking, because how can it be happening now, how - doesn’t anyone care in the slightest?

Russia is smiling pityingly now, although there is a nice pink mark on his cheek, “You _don’t_ want to do that,” he repeats softly.

“..I do,” Poland gasps out.  And it turns into a spasm of a laugh.  When he realises he is not going to fight, that’s the funniest thing.  He’s not stopped fighting in six years.  He’s fought in the air and in the sewers and when they were all starving, and kept fighting when the SS men marched his youngest most innocent before them as human shields…  And now, in this upholstered conference room, in this ringing silence, _this_ is his surrender?  Oh yes, Poland feels just about crazy enough to hit back and probably get smashed to a bloody mess with a chair just because he doesn’t _care_ anymore.  “Believe me, I want to.”

But.  For the sake of his people, and the others.  For the sake of this _peace_ , he won’t.  Not by himself.

Well, not… _right_ now.  At least, not before he’s had a chance to think things through…

He’s still shuddering with laughter as Russia finally lets go of him.

“What is the joke, Poland?”

This just makes him laugh harder.  It’s awful and undignified but at least Russia’s looking uncomfortable now.  He calms down. 

“Nothing.  Maybe I’ve just gone crazy by now, you know?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, because like why should _you_ have all the fun?”

He narrows his eyes. Is that going to get him slapped again?  And doesn’t this just feel like their old game they’re slipping into.  Baiting Russia, seeing how much he can get away with before Russia responds with a blow or a strongly worded deportation order.

He tugs down his jacket and brushes himself off with his very best contemptuous indifference. 

“I truly hope you retain control of your faculties, Poland.  Or you’d be in no fit condition to take care of your little country – I could help you some more, of course.”

“Oh, shut _up_.”  _Try it.  Hit me.  Give me a damn reason._

(- the problem is they’ve played this long enough that Russia knows his own weak spots equally well… )

“…I worry also only,” Russia continues innocently, “that you didn’t handle your experiment into parliamentary democracy so well last time.”

“Just what the hell would you know about democracy?” Poland spits, and refuses to recoil as this time Russia raises his hand again. 

But after a moment he only tousles Poland’s hair playfully; Poland makes a disgusted noise.

“You have a lot to learn.” Russia smiles.  “But we have time.” 

Poland feels a weight settling onto his heart.  _No no no_.

“Let’s just go already,” he says, throat tight, so he can pretend he has some agency.

* * *

Later, in the car, where Russia sits up front with the driver and he sits in the back feeling like a dignitary or a prisoner, but oddly safe, Poland looks at the back of Russia’s head and allows himself to see and remember what he’d been refusing to see.  The way Russia was not walking quite right, how his face is ashen even by his standards. 

There is another dream he has, and he wonders if Russia has this one too (if Russia’s allowed to dream anymore, if he’s even allowed to sleep) – at any rate he’s _in_ it.  Again and again in his dreams Poland is there, and sometimes Russia’s there too, sad shambling sack of a man across the freezing yard.  And their eyes meet but they’ve no words, hardly any thoughts past the hunger at this stage. Standing in line with another thousand of the millions who’d done the master race the insult of existing.

And it just seems so unfair.  We say we fought against all this but what have we fought _for._

You hurt me.  And I’ve hurt you too.  And we were hurt together.  And we’re neighbours but we are not friends.  So give me a reason, give me something to fight you on.  If we can’t be friends, if we can’t be _equals_ , if I am to be your slave, then I am still your enemy.  But I’m _tired_ of this, and _I wish…_

…He has to stay angry.  Has to stay angry or he’ll break down and weep.  But the time, he knows, is soon coming for that.

**Author's Note:**

> The full quote is “there is no use prowling morbidly round the three year old graves of Smolensk.” and that was Winston Churchill in a (confidential) note finding it inconvenient at the moment to investigate Katyn. This breaks my heart and honestly it's just one example.
> 
> As I say, this is Hetalia and just sort-of-historical, but there's a basic shape of "of course these elections aren't coerced in any way (say otherwise and we'll arrest/kill you)" that's prefigured here. 
> 
> Ivan's jab at Poland's 1920s government is somewhat him being bitter about the Polish-Soviet war!
> 
> The ending -- I don't know… I think it's the right one. I said before that if I continued this I wanted to at least mention that Ivan's been hurt horrifically as well, and this is just the slightest hint at that. Also I'd so far identified them mostly with their fighting forces and wanted to balance that with civilian experience too.
> 
> The nightmares aren't necessarily literal memories of events and it doesn't mean they were there in person. But, also, I theorize that sometimes when a large scale catastrophe happens to their people, sometimes the nations know or feel it really intensely, without necessarily knowing exactly what happened. Later knowledge of the facts + this would lead to some horribly vivid dreams I think. 
> 
> ….I keep rambling and then erasing historically notes trying to explain every single thing I've put ;;; Please do ask if there are any particular bits where you want to know what the reference was supposed to be!
> 
> Fic-wise -- it seems like Feliks is a lot more talkative and defiant in this one compared to the first part, but I think that's largely because the relationships are different. Poland and Russia have known each other for AGES, and, obviously it's not the same, but he has years of defiance to work from. Whereas the whatever-it-was he had with Arthur was NEW, suddenly desperately close, and complicating things massively. I had a note-to-self on a draft which said "Poland though weakened and traumatized is still tough as nails don't forget". Yeah. I don't know if at this stage you could say he's not afraid -- maybe rather, he's actively refusing to be.
> 
> Also this is kiiinda a weird counterpart to Mirror in the Mirror, in a way? Poland's PoV instead of Russia's, a very different power dynamic and moment in history, but then they both flashback to the same moment.


End file.
